


black bird, black bone

by Losha



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Supernatural Elements, Tony Stark Has Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 08:47:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17403776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Losha/pseuds/Losha
Summary: Tony Stark is not the merchant of death.But he is a herald of it.





	black bird, black bone

Tony Stark has often been called the merchant of death.

(Once, maybe, an argument could be made that he was. But not anymore. Not anymore.)

Sometimes, even years after he shuts down the weapons department of Stark Industries, leads his company into a new era of rebirth and technology, and dedicates himself to preserving life without _taking_ it, he is still looked at in the light of this name.

He does not fight it, for all that it hurts to see those accusations in the eyes of his teammates, to hear it lining their opinions of him. Fighting that argument is not only pointless, but it just makes Tony remember a different, harsher truth that he has even less interest in discussing with the Avengers.

Tony Stark is not the merchant of death. 

But he is a herald of it.

***

Ever since he was a child, Tony was taught two truths, one actively, one passively.

Passive: Science, technology, and the advancement of mankind are everything. The future is the goal and Tony, like Howard, will guide mankind into it.

Active: Tony, like Howard, is a Stark and the Starks are different from the rest of the world.

This is not because they are smarter - Tony is a child and Howard is one man, and one clever man can never be the Be All, End All. This is not because they are richer - Howard is nouveau riche and Maria is old money, but for all that the government and businesses of Wall Street and the wealthy elite who fancy clever hobbies cannot get enough of either, they are not the richest out there. This is not because they are beautiful - Tony has overheard conversations he was not meant to overhear regarding his mother, regarding his father, and, unpleasantly, speculatively, regarding himself that establish his family as no better than most privileged families, beautiful in the way that money and charm can make anyone.

No. It is for another reason. A reason that signs Maria’s name as _Maria Collins Carbonell Stark_ on any official documentation. It takes him a number of years before he realizes, but Tony’s mother isn’t ever just Maria Stark. Not where Howard can hear. Not anywhere his lawyers can reach. Maria Collins Carbonell Stark is wife to Howard and mother to Tony, but she is not a Stark in the way that Howard is a Stark or the way that Tony is a Stark. She isn’t a Stark in that _different_ way.

***

Starks are made of iron. Howard told him so, often and always. Every chance he got, he slipped it into conversation.

Stark men eat the food that is given to them so long as there is no call to suspect it is poisoned - an aside Jarvis had to clarify for him later, with a very pinched expression, and that Aunt Peggy followed up with her own, more interesting explanation for the next time she dropped by - because they are made of iron.

Stark men do not need to be liked by people like Bertie Andrews, who ripped up Tony’s invitation to his eighth birthday party because Tony had gotten a higher score on their math test, because they are made of iron and also, apparently, Better Than the Berties of the world.

Stark men do not purposefully fail tests because the teachers are talking of skipping grades and it would mean leaving the best science teacher he’s ever had, because they are made of iron and do not lessen themselves for anyone.

Starks do not cry, because they are made of iron.

Starks do not cling to their mothers, because they are made of iron.

Starks do not need friends who don’t benefit them, because they are made of iron.

Starks do not flinch at the sight of blood, because they are made of iron. At the sting of an electric shock. At the agony of a recently welded piece of metal brushing against their bare flesh.

Starks should know better than to just blindly accept the things that are handed to them, even by those they trust, because they are made of iron and there is no one they can trust.

***

Howard hit Tony because Stark men were made of iron, and he called it a Hard Truth.

“Too much of your mother in you,” Howard muttered afterwards, the glass in his tumbler clinking as he watched Tony pick himself up.

When he was up again, Tony stared at the expensive rug his father kept in his study, a plush thing in creams and reds that Maria had brought in from overseas as a present. His father hated that rug, but he also wielded it as a well oiled status symbol during the business meetings he took at home. Later, Tony remembered thinking he was like that rug. Later, he remembered thinking that he absolutely could not look up, because Howard would see him crying.

Stark men did not cry.

But Tony did. He cried as he stood there staring at the cream and red status rug, because his lip _hurt_ and because the slap had been a surprise and because his father did not look sorry at all, like he had the first few times he struck out at Tony. Even as he tried not to, even as he didn’t want to, Tony cried and though Howard didn’t voice it, Tony heard him call this Disappointment.

***

It became a thing.

Tony didn’t know what Howard wanted from him. He tried, he tried his _best_ , but somehow it was never enough.

Somehow, Tony was always too much Maria, not enough Howard.

He didn’t see why being like Maria was a problem. He was his mother’s son, but hadn’t Howard married Maria? Chosen her out of all the women - and even as a child, Tony heard talk that there were _many_ women - and promised fidelity to only her? Hadn’t Howard held Maria close and given her his ring and named her Stark? Didn’t Howard love Maria?

(Later, much later, Tony would come to understand that while Howard loved Maria, he truly did, she was a Stark, not a _Stark_. There was a difference.)

Right now, ten years old and too clever, hurt and confused and certain that his father was _rejecting him_ over and over again through this rejection of his mother, Tony stiffened his spine and bit back. His mother was a Stark and Tony was _their_ son - hers and _Howard’s_ \- and he was exactly as much of both of them as he needed to be.

(It was his first time standing up to his father.)

“We’ll see,” Howard said. He left Tony with a sore lip and the family motto, but he left Tony _standing_.

(It was not the last.)

***

Once, just once, when Howard was deep into his cups and deep into cutting down Tony’s efforts to please him, he gripped Tony by the shoulder, too tight, and - for the first time Tony can remember - his father came down to his level.

“Stark men are made of iron,” Howard said, his eyes fervent, breath ripe with ethanol, but his tone heavy enough to pin Tony in place where his hand couldn’t.

“What does that even mean?” Tony had snapped back, sullen and stung by the dismissal of his robot - DUM-E had won him a _prize_ for his complexity and all Howard could see were his flaws - and so very over his father’s dramatics. He tried to slap the hand off his shoulder, but Howard dug his nails in and wouldn’t be budged.

He expected to be checked for his attitude, but whatever mood had possessed his father this time, whatever demon resided in his cups brought a singular focus to the man that usually only applied to his weapon designs or his search for Captain America. He met Tony’s eyes - and Tony flinched back.

Howard followed. With his dark, black eyes, Howard followed.

“Starks,” he breathed intently, “are made of iron.” His father leaned in and pressed his lips to the shell of Tony’s ear - a threat, a promise, an intimacy that was unearned - and spoke words not meant for any other but Tony. “And steel,” he whispered, adding for the first time that Tony could recall to the words he has been beating into their small family’s heads since day one. “Bone and ash. Smoke.

“Remember this, Tony. Starks are made of iron. We go where the blood will flow.”

He left Tony’s side then, and the house an hour later, and the city, state, country. Tony saw him on the news a few nights later, shaking hands with a man in a dark suit. They were smiling. His father’s business partner, Obadiah Stane, who dined that night with Tony and his mother in Howard’s place, also smiled over his post-dinner drink.

“Howard just made the deal of a lifetime with our military,” Obie told Maria and Tony proudly. He raised his glass in a toast to the television. “I bet they all fell over themselves when Howard demonstrated our new designs. They’ll be put to good use over there.”

Tony’s attention caught on the amber of the bourbon in Obie’s glass. The same as Howard had been drinking before he left, though neater than Howard liked to fix his when nobody was around to judge him.

_We go where the blood will flow,_ Howard had said, before traveling hundreds of miles with the very weapons that would make sure of it.

He turned back to the television and thought, _No_.

He watched Howard glad-handing a war and he sneered and excused himself with a kiss to his mother’s cheek, a handshake for Obie, retreated to the workshop his father wasn’t around to chase him out of.

That was a life for Howard. Howard Stark could go where the blood flowed, could bring iron and steel and bone and ash and smoke wherever he went.

Tony Stark would take his iron and make something else.

Something better.

***

He gave up on earning Howard’s approval that night.

And, as though it were proof that Howard had been holding him back the entire time, his acceptance letter for MIT came the next day.

Tony was packed and gone within the week, once Maria gave her consent and arranged for lodging in Boston, long before Howard could return home.

He built a robot while he waited for the Fall semester to start that he called U, envisioning it working in tandem with DUM-E, who he’d left behind at the Stark mansion to torment his father. U was absolutely stupid, but Tony loved it. His roommate a little less so, but Rhodes would get over it.

Being at MIT felt like freedom. Like he could follow his own path, like he could build anything, whatever he wanted or dreamed up. It felt like escaping a noose that had been tightening slowly around his neck for years.

The world didn’t need more weapons. And Tony didn’t ever want to hear the stupid Stark words again.

He was never going back.

***

(Stark men do not accept never. Because they are made of iron, or whatever.)

***

The problem with being a privileged rich white boy is that while you may think you’re escaping your privilege, you aren’t.

Tony was only as free as Howard let him be.

After a while, Howard didn’t let him be.

Tony could act out all he liked while he was away at MIT, but when Howard called him home, Tony had to come. And he did, but oh, how he resented it.

Not even Maria was enough to temper the growing tension between the two Stark men.

(It was, after all, a wall made of iron and Maria was a Stark, not a _Stark_.)

***

A while after that, Howard lost all say in what Tony could or couldn’t do because he _killed himself_ \- he killed _Maria_ \- in a car crash.

Stupid.

Drunk and stupid and dead.

Tony stood at their graves a few days after Christmas, their last conversation - no, call it what it is, Tony - their last _fight_ replaying in his mind. Tony stood at his parents’ grave. His mother’s grave. Howard’s grave. Tony stood at their grave in the days after Christmas with an unresolved fight in his ears and a heavy hand digging fingers into his shoulder groundingly, Obadiah’s voice in his ear promising to look after him, to help him with Stark Industries, and he could not give less of a shit about Stark fucking Industries and he could not stop staring at the five characters dominating the top of his parents’ shared headstone.

S T A R K

Howard must not have seen his death coming, Tony thought. If he had, the headstone would have held the family motto.

As the last surviving heir, probably Tony should have made sure the words were on the headstone. Howard would have liked that. He’d had the opportunity. Aunt Peggy had come to him and asked if he wanted to include a message, like they’d done for Jarvis, like Jarvis had done for Ana. And Tony had considered it. He had. He’d known his father. Howard would have never missed the opportunity to shove the words down Tony’s throat whenever he came to visit Maria.

Which is why Tony had told Aunt Peggy no. He didn’t want to have to think about _Howard_ every time he came to see Maria. Even the thought of his father now made Tony’s hands clench into tight fists within his coat pockets.

“-stay with me tonight, Tony,” Obie said. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

“I’m fine,” Tony said tightly. He shrugged the hand off his shoulder. “I’m fine. Rhodey - my friend from MIT - flew in last night. I’m staying with him.”

“If you’re sure, Tony,” Obie relented easily.

He reached into his overcoat and produced a thick business card. “Here, take this. Take the rest of the week with your friend, but don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. Anything at all. I’ll look after S.I. in the meantime, alright? We can get together when you’re ready and talk about what happens next then.”

“Sure,” Tony agreed, because he wanted this conversation over with yesterday. He didn’t move to take the card though, kept his hands tight in his coat pockets. Let Obadiah think he was a brat, or prioritizing the warmth of his hands, or whatever else; Tony didn’t like taking things from people. The man should have known that by now as often as he was around the mansion.

Obadiah did apparently remember, because he suddenly looked rueful and rolled the card between his fingers in a neat magician’s trick that ended with it slipped into Tony’s breast pocket with nary a scolding.

Despite himself, the consideration eased some of Tony’s aggression towards the man.

“You’re sure you’ll be fine?” Obie asked kindly one last time.

“Of course,” Tony said. He dredged up a smile for this friend of his father’s and, in the spirit of laying Howard to rest, said what he refused to have put into stone. “Stark men are made of iron.”

***

And steel.

And ash and bone.

And smoke.

***

Tony met with Obie and followed his lead.

In the decade that followed, he built Stark Industries’s weapons contracts up until they surpassed Howard’s wildest dreams.

(Steel.)

He had the ability to bring the world into the future. And he did in small ways, with little side projects that Obie tutted over but allowed because they never interfered with Tony’s _real_ job, but they were never what they could be.

The best of himself, he kept within his home:

DUM-E.

U.

J.A.R.V.I.S.

The worst of himself, he sent out into the world.

Guns.

Missiles.

Bombs.

(Ash.)

He smiled. He glad-handed.

(Bone.)

And one day, in Howard’s image, Tony Stark went to Afghanistan and unveiled a project he called JERICHO.

(Smoke.)

Until that point, Tony had still been Maria’s son. More Stark than _Stark_. 

In the blowback of JERICHO’s blast, Tony stumbled and the balance shifted. Just a little.

Just enough.

***

In Afghanistan, Tony Stark was confronted with a Hard Truth and a Disappointment.

Truth: He was his mother’s son, but Maria was a Stark, not a _Stark_. There was a difference.

Truth: He was his father’s son, and Howard was a _Stark_. It meant something.

Truth: The Starks were _different_ from the rest of the world. Different in a way that Maria wasn’t. Different in a way that Howard was. In a way that Tony was.

***

Not entirely understanding why, Tony shooed his best friend away from the Humvee that tasted like iron and new pennies and climbed in himself.

Restless. Nerves. He felt wired in the quiet of the Humvee, felt like his entire body was thrumming with anticipation.

But what was there left to anticipate? Tony was confident in his creation. Nothing could follow on JERICHO’s heels.

And yet-?

***

Disappointment: Tony was no longer too much Maria, not enough Howard.

Disappointment: Tony was too much Howard, not enough Maria.

Disappointment: Tony was a _Stark_ and Starks were made of iron.

***

“What’s going on?”

(They go)

“Jimmy, stay with Stark!”

(where)

“Son of a bitch!”

(the blood)

“Wait wait wait, give me a gun!”

(flows)

“Stay! Here!”

***

In Afghanistan, Tony Stark died. In Afghanistan, Tony Stark was brought back by a man named Yinsen, but _oh_ , he was brought back as more. More Howard. Less Maria.

When he opened his eyes in captivity, they were stark black. Black as pitch, black as a raven, black as Howard’s gaze once long, long ago.

A trick of the lighting, Obadiah Stane might have thought, watching the hostage video play out contrary to the deal he’d struck. (He would have been wrong.)

***

In a cave in Afghanistan, Tony looked around at what would be his world for the next three months and he saw only death.


End file.
